


Bright Young Things

by honey_wheeler



Series: The Threesome in the Reach [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Hand Jobs, Multi, Sharing, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 10:00:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5452607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He could do more, and Sansa would almost definitely welcome it, but Jon limits himself to that small touch and Willas thinks that Jon does it out of a sort of deference, a willingness to allow Willas this small intimacy with Sansa, much as Willas had done for him the night before. And then, perhaps Jon will enjoy watching as much as Willas himself did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bright Young Things

**Author's Note:**

> A companion piece of sorts to our OTHER arranged marriage threesome, **[The Threesome in the North](http://archiveofourown.org/series/25525)**. Works in the series are not in chronological order.

Sansa is beautiful in the morning. She’s always beautiful, of course, but she seems especially so in the cool, thin light of dawn. Willas loves the muted gleam of her coppery hair spread across the pillows, her skin pale as milk, the soft pink of her sleep-smudged lips, curled in a pleased smile. The sweet quiver of her breasts above the linens as Willas plies his hand between her legs beneath them. She’s a sight to make a man glad of the morrow, even as he knows he’ll only curse it soon enough when she rises for the day and leaves his side.

Willas will not be the only one to curse the day, he thinks. There’s undeniable hunger on Jon’ Snow’s face as he rolls onto his side facing Sansa, watching her gasp and sigh and stretch into the pleasure of Willas’s touch. Hunger and more than a little challenge, though the challenge is for Willas rather than Sansa. They’re still finding a balance, the three of them, and Willas recognizes the look on Jon’s face, that heady, discomfiting mix of desire, unexpected arousal, admiration, and possessiveness. Rarely does this happen with the three of them, this sort of passive watching. Usually Sansa is assiduous about sharing her attention with them equally, touching one as she kisses the other, kissing one while she welcomes the other inside her. One of them watching the other two thus engaged in such a way isn’t something they _do_ and Willas can tell it sits strangely with Jon. Not badly, but strangely. Willas could almost feel sympathy for him, as he knows precisely what that feels like. But it’s Jon’s own fault Willas knows what it feels like, so his sympathy is in somewhat limited supply.

It had been the sounds that roused Willas in the night, pulling him from a delicious dream that seemed to consist only of sensation and feeling, of hands and tongues and secret places. For a moment, he’d thought he still dreamed as he took in the sight of them on the bed beside him, Sansa still nude from the evening’s exertions, the linens kicked away, her knees cocked with her feet planted flat on the mattress and Jon Snow face down in the spread of her thighs. It was the slick, wet sound of his mouth on her that Willas had heard, even in dreams, and the sound of Sansa’s low murmurs as she stroked gentle fingers through his hair until it stood out around his head like a soft, dark cloud. Willas couldn’t remember ever seeing her so relaxed, so languid and content. Jon’s movements were equally languorous; he savored her like something rare and rich, something he might never taste again that he wanted to make last. Willas felt a stab of bittersweet envy for all that Jon had shared with her, and she with him, long before Willas had ever met her.

Then Jon looking up to see Willas watching and raised his head, his mouth and chin shining with her, and Willas’s feelings turned mostly to helpless arousal.

“Did we wake you?” Sansa asked, Jon’s gaze drawing her attention to Willas. “I couldn’t sleep.” She’d shrugged, sheepish and utterly charming. Jon’s expression barely changed, but Willas saw the brash cheek in the slight rise of his eyebrow as he looked at him from between Sansa's legs. Willas's _wife's_ legs, the cocky bastard.

“She couldn’t sleep,” he echoed, as if that settled it.

Now it’s Willas’s turn to quirk a sardonic brow as Jon watches Willas bring Sansa to the cusp of bliss with his fingers, that same helpless arousal and bittersweet envy on his face, clear even in his usual, nearly impassive expression.

“Good morrow,” Sansa sighs contentedly when she sees Jon awake and watchful beside her. One of her hands is wrapped around Willas’s wrist, urging and encouraging him, and she lifts the other to run her knuckles down Jon’s cheek before twining her hand in the hair at his nape. Jon only smiles down at her in answer. His fingers ghost along the soft skin on the underside of her arm. He could do more, and Sansa would almost definitely welcome it, but Jon limits himself to that small touch and Willas thinks that Jon does it out of a sort of deference, a willingness to allow Willas this small intimacy with Sansa, much as Willas had done for him the night before. And then, perhaps Jon will enjoy watching as much as Willas himself did. She’d come three times at the ministrations of Jon’s tongue while Willas watched. Willas figures he gets at least as many of her peaks to himself.

One of those peaks is upon her now; her hips pitch and arch up into his hand as she tightens her grip on his wrist. As ever, he’s as humbled as he is aroused by her innate sensuality, her body’s sweet, shameless demands. She smiles up at him with hazy, pleasure-damped eyes that slip half closed when her breath catches and turns into a volley of escalating gasps as she arches her back off the mattress. Her mouth stretches open in soundless bliss, and Willas can’t resist; he dips his head and licks into her warm, wet mouth, as warm and as wet as the flesh he slides and strokes his fingers over between her thighs. Need clenches in his gut when her tongue curls against his in instinctive response, almost kittenish in its delicacy.

The first peak rolls into another. Sansa mewls, pants, squirms into Willas’s still moving hand. Gods, she is glorious in her abandon, primal in her need, the sweetest succubus imaginable. Willas strokes her through her crisis, only pulling his hand away when she jerks and brings her legs together, too sensitive for anything further, at least for the moment. Impulsively, Willas brings his hand above the linens and paints the peak of her breast with the glistening evidence of her completion. The look he gives Jon is half challenge, half invitation, and Jon takes both, bending his head with a groan to lick Sansa’s desire from her nipple.

“Oh!” she cries, laughing. “I didn’t expect that.”

“Did you really expect any of this?” Willas asks with an answering chuckle, gesturing to the three of them together like this.

“I suppose not.” Sansa is still smiling when she pulls his head down to meet her in a kiss. It’s long and slow and deep, her tongue sliding over his in a lazy tangle. When she turns to give Jon a kiss just as long and slow and deep, Willas feels no true jealousy. He only feels a spark of the sort of good-natured competitiveness he thought he’d lost long ago, when the world of jousting and tourneys had been closed off to him for good.

One more. Willas gets one more peak of hers all to himself. But when she blindly reaches down to take Willas's cock in her hand with a rhythmic stroke, all while kissing Jon, Willas contents himself with pressing open-mouthed kisses to her shoulder and giving in to the indulgence of her attention. 

There’s time enough to keep score with Jon Snow later.


End file.
